Resort to Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  The cottage interior was unremarkable: a shabby chintz-covered sofa, an old green armchair, a pair of wing chairs with faded petit-point upholstery. Cast-offs from the hotel? The oriental rug had a discolored fringe. I suspected these were remnants of the days when the Tower Ridge House had been an elegant home. A man’s brown leather recliner sat next to a small cedar table. A wooden rack held pipes—big ones, little ones, sleek ones, knobby ones. The smell of old tobacco was stronger here.

  Thelma Worrell swung about to face me. The stark light flooding through the windows emphasized the purplish shadows beneath her staring eyes and the deep lines grooved by her thin lips. “Rosalind knows you are here.” Her voice was high, uneven.

  I realized abruptly that she was afraid of me. She was not simply worried that I might reveal her surreptitious eavesdropping to the chief inspector. She watched me with uneasy eyes, nervously fingered a jade brooch at her throat. She pulled the cell phone from her pocket. “I can call her. If I need to.”

  “You won’t need to call Rosalind, Mrs. Worrell.” My tone was dry. “All I want from you is George Smith’s address.”

  “His address?” She spoke the words as if they were in an unknown tongue.

  “Where did he live?” I opened my purse, pulled out a notepad and pen.

  She dropped the cell phone into her sweater pocket, pushed back a fringe of frizzy hair. “What did George have that you want? What’s going on? Did you and George make up this ugly story about Roddy?”

  She knew everything I’d told the inspector. I wished I knew what else she’d learned, pressed so quietly against that adjoining door. Obviously, she’d heard nothing to explain more about the ghost.

  “I had nothing to do with the ghost.” It was like being tangled in an unseen spider’s web. “That’s what I’m trying to find out more about. You heard me tell the inspector about the kite—”

  “There’s no proof there was ever a kite in the Sports closet!” Her tone accused me. “I asked James and he said he didn’t tell you anything about the closet. He said he didn’t tell you anything at all about a ghost, that he doesn’t know anything about a ghost.”

  “James is your employee.” I didn’t want to get James in trouble. I chose my words carefully. “He doesn’t want to lose his job. I don’t think he does know much. When he told me to look there, I had the sense that he thought there might be something of interest but that it was a guess. I had no feeling that he was a party to anything George had done. He was afraid George had involved himself in something and it might have to do with his murder.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She lifted her fingers to one temple, pressed for a moment. “Murder.” She repeated the word, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it. George—why would anyone kill George? And why do you want to know where he lived?”

  “I want to see where he lived. I want to look around. Ask questions.” I held her gaze. “Somewhere there has to be a link between George and the person who murdered him. I’m sure George created your husband’s ghost. He did it for a reason. When we know that reason, we will know why he died.”

  “That ghost”—she shuddered—“shiny and white and hanging there.” Her voice shook. She took a step toward me. “You think it was a kite? You think George did it? But why, why?” Her voice rose.

  “Because he knew who killed your husband. He may have tried blackmail.” I was ordering the facts in my mind, clear and cogent and compelling, George talking on the cell phone, telling someone that he should go to the police…

  Her eyes flared. She clutched at her throat with a shaking hand.

  We stared at each other. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from hers. I looked at misery so intense, I wanted to turn and run. The memory of a dark and ugly night pulsed between us, raw and painful as an open wound.

  “No.” Her voice was harsh. “It was her fault. Her fault.”

  I wondered uneasily then if Thelma Worrell had crept up behind her husband, pushed him from the ledge of the tower. It was possible. Why else was she frightened? Why else was she so insistent that Connor caused Roddy’s death? After all, we had only Thelma’s word that George had seen Connor at the tower that night. I thought of George’s words, on the cell phone yesterday morning—at least the report of them from Jasmine—and yes, George remembered seeing a woman at the tower. He had not said what woman. Yes, he’d been talking about Connor. But what if it was Thelma Worrell he saw that night?

  “George didn’t—” She stopped, licked dry lips. She fumbled with the brooch, unloosed it. She turned the piece of jewelry over and over in her fingers. “Maybe George tried to get money from her.” The sentence wavered uncertainly. Then, more strongly, she said it again. “Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe George tried to get money out of her.”

  I scarcely heard her. My thoughts tumbled. I’d been so certain that George’s death was tied to Roddy Worrell’s. If I was wrong about that…if Thelma Worrell was truly frightened of me, if she thought I’d killed George, then I had to seek George’s murderer elsewhere even if she had indeed pushed her husband.

  “…George said he saw her that night. Maybe he saw her push Roddy.” Her eyes glittered with an anger that would never be satisfied.

  Was Thelma Worrell an actress of great accomplishment? Had she pretended to be afraid of me? Or was it possible that she truly thought I might have murdered George because he’d paid too much attention to Diana? Or indeed for some more obscure reason? What was it she’d asked: “What did George have that you want?”

  I couldn’t be sure of the truth, but I held fast to one overriding suspicion: Thelma might have murdered her husband. If that was true, it definitely gave her a motive to get rid of George.

  “George didn’t see Connor.” That’s all I said.

  Her pale blue eyes shifted away from mine. Did she know better than anyone in the world how Roddy died?

  I watched her closely. “Nothing happened to George until Roddy’s ghost appeared.”

  “The ghost.” She shivered. “Roddy died one year ago this Saturday.”

  Someone wanted everyone at Tower Ridge House to remember Roddy Worrell. If I knew who planned the ghost, I would understand everything. I was sure of it. And George had known.

  “I want George’s address.” Once again I held my pen ready. “A basement apartment?” Bermuda has a tight housing crunch, especially for working people. Basement apartments were very popular.

  Her mouth shut in a tight line.

  “I will tell the chief inspector that you listened to his interviews.” I watched as she decided, saw the uncertainty in her eyes. She didn’t want the chief inspector to ask why she had eavesdropped. She didn’t want him to think again about the night that Roddy Worrell died and perhaps wonder about his wife’s anger. On the other hand, she might worry about what I might discover if I gained access to George’s living quarters.

  She blew out a spurt of angry breath. She turned, was gone for a moment, came back with a sheet in her hand. “A basement apartment in Warwick,” she said abruptly. “10 Apple Rose Lane. Half-Crescent Court.”

  I stepped over the railing from my balcony to Diana’s. I pushed on the sliding door and wasn’t surprised that it moved. Her helmet and the moped keys were lying on the table. I picked them up, scrawled a note, propped it against the ceramic tower.

  I returned to my room, changed into slacks and a sweater. I didn’t see anyone on my way to the moped parking area behind the pittosporum shrub near the main entrance. I took time to write another note just in case she noticed that her moped was missing before she went to her room:

  Dear Diana,

  I’ve borrowed your moped for a little while. I’ll be back soon.

  Grandma

  I looked around for something heavy. I walked along the flower bed, pushing on the decorative border of broken bricks. The sixth was loose. I reached down, pulled it free and used the portion of brick to anchor the note on the cement block where the moped was parked.

  I’m
not much of a helmet wearer, but they are required by law in Bermuda. I adjusted it, snapped the chin strap, and straddled the bike. The key turned smoothly and the motor rumbled. As I’d hoped, riding a motorbike was a quickly remembered skill. I felt fairly wobbly and took my time going down the drive, but the balance came back to me. I drove slowly, of course. Fortunately, the speed limit is 20 miles per hour. That definitely seemed fast enough. I concentrated on keeping to the left.

  The curving road—all roads curve and twist in Bermuda—sloped down. At the base of a fairly steep hill, I turned left onto Middle Road. Pastel-painted houses with the distinctive stepped white roofs dotted the hillsides. At the traffic light, I turned onto South Shore Road. I had a hand-drawn map, reluctant courtesy of Mrs. Worrell, tucked in my pocket. I’d studied it carefully before I left. She’d even marked familiar sites. I passed the entrance to Elbow Beach Hotel. So far, so good. A taxi pressed a little too close behind me, but I didn’t increase my speed.

  At Southcote Avenue, I turned right. The narrow road was bounded by big hedges of Suriname cherry and copper-leaf. The legend is that no two leaves of the copper-leaf, also called matchmacan (match me if you can!), are the same. The red leaves were a cheerful note among all the greenery. Happily, I had this stretch of narrow road to myself.

  I turned left on Ord Road. As I passed the bright green of Paget Primary School, I came up behind a battered little car traveling even slower than I. That was fine with me. When we crossed into Warwick Parish, there was a patch of more modest homes. I slowed to turn on a rough dirt track that angled up the hillside. A field to my left was filled with cabbage, beans and lettuce. I slowed at a low wall that bounded a small square lot. A wooden sign read Half-Crescent Court. It is the custom for houses to have names in addition to the formal address.

  I stopped in front of the two-story gray house with lime shutters. Masses of pink and purple petunias bloomed in front beds. Norfolk pines flanked each end of the house. The main entrance was directly before me. A flagstone path branched off the main walk, curved around the east side of the house. I guessed the basement apartment would be at the side of the house or perhaps in back.

  The house was in good repair, the paint bright, the flower beds well tended, the front steps swept clean. I hurried up the steps, knocked, I wasn’t certain what I would say. Should I inquire about the vacant apartment, say I’d heard from a friend it might be available? Should I claim acquaintance with George’s parents, say I was there to look over his belongings to see what should be returned to Canada?

  I always move at too fast a pace. I had lifted my hand, ready to knock again, when the door swung in. An imposing woman—six feet tall, dark hair in an untidy chignon, a faded pink turtleneck and purple slacks, a two-strand necklace of amber beads—looked at me politely. She had fine dark eyes and a magenta-bright mouth. The blue mixing bowl in the crook of her arm was half full of smooth, yellow batter. I smelled the rich cream of butter and a hint of nutmeg.

  I made a quick decision. Sometimes the truth works better than a clever ploy. “Hello. I’m Henrietta Collins, a guest at Tower Ridge House. I found George’s body Wednesday morning. I’d like to talk to you about him, if I may.”

  Her expressive face mirrored surprise, sadness, curiosity, uncertainty. “I don’t know…” she began hesitantly.

  “I won’t take up much of your time.” I pointed at the bowl. “Not many people bake these days.”

  She looked at the batter, her dark brows drawing together. “I love to bake. I always put a plate on George’s kitchen table.” She shook her head. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. I took him a piece of pie Tuesday afternoon. He was so cheerful. He gave me a thumbs-up, said everything was coming up roses for him.”

  I felt the old familiar tingle, the heightened sense a reporter develops. I was close to a discovery, so close I could taste it. But I needed to be careful not to shut her down, not to alarm her. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

  She frowned and rubbed her thumb along the rim of the bowl. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I am convinced that George was involved in what he believed to be a practical joke. I think he accepted money to create the appearance of a ghost at the hotel.” I looked at her soberly. “I think that ‘joke’ caused George’s murder. I want to find out who hired him.”

  Her eyes flashed. “George was a nice boy.”

  “Yes. But he may have been foolish. Please, if you know anything at all that can help me…”

  “I don’t see what business it is of yours.” Her face was puzzled, her eyes questioning.

  I turned my hands palms-up. “It isn’t any of my business. Not in the sense you mean. But it is important to me because I don’t want to feel I might have been a cause of his death. I offered George money not to do the ghost trick. Instead, the ghost—a shiny white cloud—appeared Wednesday night near the tower on the hotel grounds. The next morning—the morning he died—I found a note pushed under my door. It was from George. He asked me to meet him on the headland and he wanted more money to tell me about the ghost. I went to the headland. I found his body.”

  “Mrs.”—she paused—“Collins?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Joan Abbott.” It was a murmur as she thought. Finally, she gave a decided nod of her head, said briskly, “Even if someone killed George to keep him from revealing information to you, it was George’s decision to ask you for money.”

  “Still…” And my voice was weary.

  “George was a good boy.” She gave me a level stare. “But he thought everyone who stayed at Tower Ridge House was rich.” Her smile was wry. “I guess that’s true enough. I suppose he thought people there spent money so easily, why not some for him? He wanted to go home, you know. He missed the snow, missed the seasons. Missed his family. Tuesday afternoon, when I talked to him, he was excited. He said”—she turned her face up, squeezed her eyes shut as if re-creating a picture in her mind, cupped the blue bowl in her hands—“he was having fun, that Americans were all nuts, and especially about weddings, and this was going to be his lucky weekend. He was going to pick up enough on the side to go home and get back in school.” Her eyes snapped open, deep and dark and sad. She lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. “I don’t know what wedding he meant…”

  Unfortunately, I did. I didn’t want to talk about that. “Mrs. Abbott, would you show me George’s apartment?” George was pinning his hopes for money to a wedding. There was only one wedding party staying at the hotel. Who in that group—that very small group—wanted Roddy Worrell’s ghost to walk? I would have to think about that.

  “His apartment?” She looked at me steadily. “Why?”

  “Maybe he kept a diary.” I knew that wasn’t likely. “Or if he had a computer…”

  Mrs. Abbott waved a hand in dismissal. “No, he couldn’t afford a computer. There’s a café downtown. He used to go there, get soccer scores on the Internet. I don’t think he read much. I offered him books, but he liked television. He had a little black-and-white set.”

  I’d not really hoped for a diary. I lifted my shoulders. “I don’t know. There may be nothing there to help. But I’d like to look.”

  “The police have already been through the apartment.” Her judgment was clear. The police knew what to look for. If there had been anything there, they would have found it.

  But what had they looked for? Perhaps I would see something they’d missed.

  She frowned. “The inspector said he would be in touch with George’s family. I need to know where to send his things.” She studied me. “All right. I’ll show you.” She glanced at the stairs near the door. “The baby’s asleep. But it shouldn’t take us long. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get the key.”

  I nodded.

  The door closed. She had not invited me in. That was all right. She might be fairly convinced I meant well, but she wasn’t a woman to invite a stranger into her home.

  It was several momen
ts before she returned. I rather imagined she had called the police. But that, too, was all right. The chief inspector might not be pleased at my presence, but I was breaking no law.

  When the door opened, she held a key in one hand and a small plastic object in the other. “The baby monitor. Just in case Jeremy wakes up. My daughter and her husband live with me.” She hesitated in the doorway. “I spoke with the chief inspector.”

  “That’s fine.” I kept my tone pleasant.

  “He asked that we not remove anything from the apartment.” As she came down the steps, she motioned toward the flagstones. “This way. The entrance is at the side.”

  She moved quickly. I was right behind her.

  A red wooden railing marked the steps down to an equally red door.

  She gave me a brief smile. “I usually rent to young people. They like the door.” She stepped inside, clicked on the light, held the door for me.

  The studio apartment was simply furnished. Everything was shabby, well-used. Even though the yellowish-brown linoleum curled at the edges and the chairs had worn upholstery, the long room was cheerful, with bright posters adorning the pine walls and everything in order and quite clean, despite the musty smell.

  She wrinkled her nose. “You can’t get rid of the mold. No matter how often you mop.”

  I circled the room. The single bed in one corner was neatly made, the spread a light gray with red squares. On the dresser was a tray with cuff links, coins. An airline ticket lay to one side. I picked it up, flipped it open. A one-way ticket to Toronto for next Wednesday.

  Joan Abbott was murmuring behind me, “…why, there are his suitcases! He must have got them out of the storage shed. And everything is quite bare. He’d got rid of a lot of his things.”

  George had definitely intended to go home. He’d come into money. I was certain I knew why. He was being paid for the appearance of the ghost. That had been easy money. And he’d hoped for more easy money, five thousand from me for information about the ghost. Had he asked someone for even more money to keep quiet about the ghost? Or had he asked Thelma Worrell for money to keep quiet about her husband’s fall? Whichever, someone reached the headland before me on Thursday morning and that person brought death, not money.